Dozen, Dozen
by Our Vulnerability
Summary: 24 unrelated oneshots/drabbles/poems. My subscription to Gethsemane324's 24-word-challenge. Angst, romance, humor, poetry, everything really.
1. 00 Prompts

**A/N: **Okay, so… doing this 'cause I'm bored and I never have inspiration to write anything. I really haven't written much for around a year, besides school-related stuff, and this seems like an easy enough way to ease myself back into writing (for what purpose...? I dunno). A lot of these will inevitably be crap because sometimes you just need to get that out of your system, ya'know? Hopefully there will be some good stuff to balance it out. Constructive criticism is welcomed! Any reviews are appreciated, even if you have nothing to say (the former is preferred).

**Rated T** for language mostly. Other explicit stuff includes or may include (but is not limited to) suicide, drug/alcohol use, gore. I know that no one pays attentions to ratings anyway, but I thought I might as well put this here.

**Disclaimer:** This is _fan_fiction. I don't own anything, _The Hunger Games_, _Catching Fire_, etc. If it's not an original character, it belongs to Suzanne Collins.

01 - Promise

**02 - Opal**

03 - Chair

04 - Belt

05 - Colors

06 - Picture

07 - Hope

08 - Gratitude

**09 - Determination**

10 - Book

**11 - Trap**

12 - Home

13 - Fly

14 - Legendary

15 - Blood

16 - Yell

**17 - Animal**

18 - Spring

19 - Bracelet

20 - Frost

**21 - Escape**

22 - Bells

23 - Oddity

24 - Reminder


	2. 02 Opal

**A/N:** Basically my attempt at angsty romance... never comes out like I want it to. Whatever!

**02 – Opal**

"Lance!" I choke as I see his familiar face come into view. He quietly gives me a weak smile—I'm unsure whether I should be reassured or further worried.

"Hey," he says, making his way over me. I know him too well; behind his mask of calmness I'm sure there's a flurry of emotions. Somewhat guiltily I reflect on the fact that I haven't given any thought to him, but it's understandable for someone in my position. "How're you feeling?" Lance asks, bringing me back to the present.

I don't say anything just yet. I want to be honest with him, but I realize that I must do so immediately. How quickly they had just rushed my father out! "I don't know," I admit. I try to return his aforementioned smile.

He kneels on one knee in front of me, as opposed to sitting on the overly plush chairs positioned around the warm room. I like him here. Close to me. He puts his hand on my knee.

"I brought you this," he says suddenly. I was enjoying the quiet moment we had, but I also wanted to say whatever he had to say. This would be the last time I saw him. "I thought you'd want it as your district token…" Lance reaches into his pocket and retrieves a dazzling ring. I recognize the stone as opal. It's not the most precious of gems, but to me it means everything. Neither of us are particularly wealthy. "I'd gotten it for you." There's sadness behind his voice that I don't want to acknowledge yet.

"Oh!" I manage, but I break off, unable to say more. I eagerly, but shakily, take the ring and slide it on my finger. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes.

And then something occurs to me. "Lance," I say hesitantly. "You know this will probably be lost, if I—if it slips off my finger." I correct myself quickly. I can't bring myself to say that I'll die just yet. A wave of helplessness sweeps over me when I realize how little of a chance I have.

Forcefully, I tear the ring off my finger as the tears start rolling down my cheeks. I can feel them running down my chinbone, eventually collecting together and dropping onto my dress. My finger hurts where the ring was but I don't care.

Now I'm trying to force it back to him. I'm going to die. He can't waste this valuable piece of jewelry on me now. He's just shaking his head, and now I'm sobbing, making strange, inhuman, guttural noises, holding the ring in my outstretched palm.

"Please," I gasp, but he won't take it back. And then some Capitol official is at the door, calling to Lance. I want to get up and scream at him. Doesn't he know what he's interrupting?

But Lance obeys, standing up, walking away. Just before he exits, he whispers, "I love you."

"I love you," I return, with considerably less grace. But the door slams shut behind him. He didn't hear me.

In my frustration I've stood up. I slowly sink back into the couch. Anger pulses through my veins now. It's not directed at Lance, though. It's the Capitol, who enjoys throwing me into this position and watching me squirm. Because they can.

I close my hand in a fist around the ring and cross my arms. My arms remain crossed as I use my left triceps to wipe the remaining tears from my eyes. A few more sobs escape me; I haven't quite calmed down.

Part of me wants to throw the ring across the room and forget it even exists. But I can't. I'll honor Lance's intentions.

I sheepishly slip the ring back onto my finger. It's all I have left.


	3. 21 Escape

**A/N:** I like this one. Pretty angsty. Drug use/language for those that care. I will probably rewrite this soon, since there's some stuff that needs to be changed. I wrote this before reading Catching Fire, so there are a few minor details and general clean-up to deal with... whatever! (I'm gonna end all my author's notes with "whatever!" from now on.)

**21 – Escape**

Despite the Capitol's state-of-the-art air conditioning system, designed to maintain a _perfect_ temperature in accordance to each mentor's personal preference, Haymitch could feel the sweat gathering along his hairline. When he ran his fingers through his hair, he could feel the moisture glistening.

He could have easily gotten up to adjust the temperature settings. But that could wait. There were more important things at hand. Right now, Haymitch was fixed on the several monitors positioned in front of him.

A hardly audible sound behind him indicated that someone had entered. He risked briefly looking away from the monitors to see who it was. As soon as he realized, his focus returned to the monitors.

It was a pair of Avoxes. The first precariously balanced a tray of the Capitol's food—which looked and smelled absolutely delicious, as usual. The second balanced another tray with a single wine glass on it. In her other hand, she held a bottle of wine. For the festivities, Haymitch supposed sarcastically. Oh, how he hated the Capitol and their "entertainment." The Avoxes left as quickly and silently as they had entered.

He had no intention of touching the food or drink just yet—in fact, he resolved not to touch the wine at all, at least until the dust settled. A clear mind was necessary for his job.

Finally, the familiar voice of Claudius Templesmith boomed, taking Haymitch by modest surprise. "Let the 62nd Hunger Games begin!" In unison the familiar metal plates rose up through the ground. While some of the tributes standing on them were clearly terrified, others seemed almost excited at the imminent bloodshed. Haymitch shook his head slightly, reflecting on this.

All twenty-four tributes were displayed on the center monitor; that was what everyone across Panem saw. The other two monitors were personalized for Haymitch as the mentor of District 12. They were positioned to the left and right of this center monitor showed his two tributes.

While attempting to keep track of time mentally—he estimated there was about fifty second now until they could move—Haymitch examined his tributes. The girl, Clover, seemed to have pulled herself together, despite being one of the youngest tributes. She also had only gotten a three in training.

Admittedly, there wasn't any real chance that she would win. Haymitch never told her this though; he didn't have the heart, and it probably went unsaid regardless. She was thirteen-years-old and didn't have any skills that stood out. The best Haymitch could do for her was give her the typical underdog-tribute advice: get away from Cornucopia, find water, and only then come up with a plan. At least she was preparing to make a run for it.

Next Haymitch examined the boy. He was older—fifteen years old. Somewhat surprisingly, he managed to get a five in training. He seemed to have a sort of natural skill with a sword, despite having never used one before back in District 12. Of course, that "skill" was nothing in comparison to what the Careers were capable of—but he always had luck to fall back on, unlike the girl.

Worst case scenario, he'd just end up dead.

This natural talent may actually be the death of him, Haymitch thought darkly. He'd given the boy the same advice as the girl, but now the boy was eying one of the swords at Cornucopia.

How much time was left? Haymitch had lost track. As he continued to watch the boy, his apprehension grew. With every second, the boy seemed to become more and more confident with the idea of going to Cornucopia.

"No!" Haymitch hissed. "You idiot!" It was hopeless. The boy was positioning himself to run. He'd die and Haymitch would once again return to District 12, back to the gaze of those now-broken families.

Would they blame him? Did they blame him for the swift deaths of last years tributes? Haymitch honestly didn't know. But whether it was just paranoia or a legitimate suspicion, it sure as hell felt like the families blamed him. Everytime he saw them, it felt like he was under their gaze, their scrutiny. Last year he didn't have the courage to speak with them about the death of their children. That was a policy that likely would not see revision this year.

Haymitch's eyes were glued to the screens, darting from monitor to monitor, but they never left the Games altogether. Maybe this was how the Capitol felt when watching the Games. As a kid he always tried to look away, when squished among the crowd of District 12's unwilling viewers. But no, the Capitol didn't care. They liked this.

At last—or perhaps too soon—the cannon fired. Haymitch watched, relieved, as Clover sprinted towards the cover of the trees with everything she could muster. She wouldn't have any supplies to aid her once she got away from the other tributes, but that would have to be dealt with later. At least she would survive the bloodbath. Haymitch had a feeling that was more than he could say for the boy.

The boy—well, he was on his way to Cornucopia, along with over dozen other tributes who decided to battle it out. They paid almost no attention to each other as each sprinted at a breakneck speed towards the giant horn.

He leapt up onto Cornucopia at the same time as a few other tributes, scrambling for a handhold. He made it. Admittedly, he'd made it further than Haymitch had expected. The boy grabbed the sword. Haymitch wondered if he might even bring another tribute down with him.

The gleaming blade was just sliding out of the sheath as the mace struck him. The blow knocked him clean off of the massive horn. Haymitch recoiled, turning his face about forty-five degrees to the left, but his eyes remained fixed on the three screens in front of him.

He now lay immobile on the ground. Dead? Maybe. The cannon wouldn't sound until the entire bloodbath was over. His sword had been thrown from his hand, landing even further from the horn.

Suddenly, there was movement. The boy propped himself up on his elbow. Haymitch had to admit, the boy had some fight in him. Likely more than Haymitch would personally have, granted that Haymitch wasn't stupid enough to be in this situation in the first place.

Another tribute had climbed down from the horn now. It was clear that he was moving towards the boy, who now was crouched over, staring at the ground. The approaching tribute laid a kick into his head. He lurched over.

Haymitch, whose face had just been inches from the monitor, finally fell back into his chair. He felt his body slouch down, the tension from his shoulders release. For the first time in several minutes, he closed his eyes, and kept them that way for several seconds.

When he opened them, the boy had a knife shoved in his throat—he was dead.

Haymitch had no desire to watch the Games any more. Another tribute had failed under his watch, died a brutal death because of these goddamned Games. And Haymitch just had to sit there, powerless to do anything other than pop an artery.

But he still had one more tribute left.

He sat back up and turned his attention towards the monitor on the right. Clover was jogging through the woods now. She didn't know what had happened to her fellow District 12 tribute. She'd find out that night. _If_ she made it that long.

She had nothing at all. No food. No sleeping bag. No weapon. Even when she found water, she'd probably get dysentary without purifying tablets to clean it. Fatally? It didn't really matter. She might have survived the bloodbath, but one way or another, she was going back to District 12 in a box. The boys brutal death had spoiled any optimism that Haymitch had left. Not that it mattered.

Haymitch rotated his chair around, away from the monitors. He didn't want to watch anymore right now. On the computer next to him, he checked for sponsor funds. There were some, but they were so few that it wouldn't even be enough to buy a single cracker on day one. It was useless to even hope.

Suddenly, Haymitch's anger flared up. An impulse led him to grab the plate of food next to him and hurl it like a Frisbee at the wall. The crystal dish shattered satisfyingly and the food stained the carpet. He wrapped his head in his hands and forearms, assuming something similar to the fetal position. He stayed like this for several seconds, making a grunting sound with each breath.

When his anger subsided enough, he turned his attention back to the innocent little girl walking through the woods. All he felt now was a deep willingness to help her—to do something for her. But what? What could he do now? She had no sponsors and he couldn't contact her in anyway. He was essentially watching a movie now. He didn't know the ending yet, but there was no way he could possibly influence it.

Haymitch glanced around the room. There was the bottle of wine that he had earlier resolved not to touch. For about half-a-minute, he stared at it, not really thinking about anything.

And then he abandoned his resolution.

_Now_ there was no real need for clarity of mind. There wasn't anything he could do anyway. No important decisions to make. The boy was dead. The girl's fate was as good as set in stone.

He popped the cork off the bottle and filled the wine glass nearly to the brim. With the glass gripped firmly in his hand, he hesitated, his eyes briefly lost in the little bubbles that sporadically danced towards the top of the red liquid. He blinked.

And then he chugged it. And then he refilled the glass, which he proceeded to inhale.

It was nighttime. Clover was leaning against a tree, one arm lying across her stomach. She made no sounds or movements, but it was clear that she was in pain. The color had flushed from her cheeks. Finally, she leaned over and wretched, expelling the foul water that she drank about two hours ago from her body.

Haymitch noticed none of this as it was happening. He didn't even recognize the sound of the cannon a few minutes later.

The wine bottle was upside-down in one of his hands. He patted the bottom of the bottle eagerly, urging the last few drops to empty out into the wine glass. They came out, but missed, and landed on the silver tray. This he also didn't notice.

The last glass was only half full. He downed it in a single gulp. This was his escape.


	4. 09 Determination

**A/N:** This just came to mind while I was reading CF, so I wrote it. Can't say that it's great, but I guess it's not that bad.

**09 – Determination**

"You what?" Haymitch stares at me in disbelief. His initial surprise feels almost scathing. But I probably should have anticipated it.

"I love Katniss," I repeat steadily, holding his gaze. My legs are crossed as I lean back in my chair, feigning nonchalance, although the bead of sweat rolling down my cheek probably betrays my facade. I switch my legs around nervously.

He continues to gape at me, his expression unchanging. Just as I begin to wish he would stop, he grunts, "Hm." Haymitch nods his head, lips pursed, finally craning his head to the side. While he does so I quickly wipe the aforementioned sweat away. "Okay," he begins slowly, "what do you want to do about that?"

I'm both relieved and surprised by his sudden openness, but I have no complaints. I respond honestly, "I plan on keeping her alive in the Games."

"I thought I got fighters this year." His voice sounds almost disappointed. What have I got to prove to Haymitch though?

"You did get fighters," I spit at him, narrowing my eyes slightly. I feel the need to justify myself. This conversation isn't about the impotent tributes he's been stuck with for the last twenty-three years. It's about Katniss and me. "I'm still fighting. Just not for myself. And if I'm helping her, she has a better chance to win than either of us would alone."

Haymitch seems to mull over my logic. Finally, he decides, "Fair enough." There's a pause as he seems to consider everything. "I assume you want me to give her all the gifts?"

I nod.

"Are you planning on telling her?"

I'm somewhat taken aback by this question. Yes, I have thought of telling Katniss that I love her—many times, in fact, over the past eleven years—but not in the context of the Games.

"No," I say cautiously. "I wasn't really." Now that I've exacted his promise to help Katniss—and not me—in the Games, I'm hesitant to give him any information. I don't know why.

Haymitch averts his eyes to the ground in thought. It's amazing how intelligent he looks when he's sober. If only it lasted. I can see that he has a few bottles of hard liquor stashed next to his seat, and I'm grateful that he hasn't started drinking during my prep. I can't help but wonder if Katniss will have the same luck after she's through with Effie. "Well, since we're supposed to be discussing your interview," Haymitch begins, "I have a plan for you. We can play this angle up."

"I don't want to 'play this angle up,'" I retort, letting some anger slip into my voice. Why is everything about doing well in the Games? I have no intention of becoming the Capitol's puppet. I don't want to make entertainment out of my feelings for Katniss, regardless of how much the sponsors will pay.

Now it's Haymitch's turn to be angry, though. "How about you shut up and think about it? You can give her something that she could never achieve herself."

I allow myself to listen as Haymitch details his plan. I am to admit my love for her in my interview—the declaration should blow all the other tribute's interviews out of the water, Haymitch says.

And in spite of myself, I start thinking that it sounds like a good idea. With his plan, and some determination, I think I might be able to get Katniss Everdeen through the Hunger Games, alive.


	5. 11 Trap

**A/N:** Trying something new here…

**11 – Trap**

While Atala is speaking with the dozen or so tributes that have shown up, I try to listen to what she's saying. I could probably guess, but I'm just doing so to pass time. I catch a word here and there, but it's difficult; they've all congregated on the opposite side of the training room, far from my station. I lean back in my chair and sigh.

The group splinters and I guess that she dismissed them. They seem to go in every direction but mine—not necessarily true, but that's what it feels like. I recognize most of the tributes, although right now only two stand out.

Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark.

They linger briefly, sharing a few words that are inaudible at this distance, and then break. Peeta heads over to the spear station, following two other victors. I scowl. He's one person that I'd prefer didn't come to my station.

There's a strange sensation that flutters within me when I realize that Katniss is moving in my direction. I sit up, take a deep breath, and unconsciously feel my tongue run over my lips.

Last year I told all of my friends that I had met the girl on fire. Oh, their jealousy! This year, however, I think I'll keep our meeting to myself.

Suddenly she's here, and I hear myself greeting her automatically.

She says few words, but she listens. And she remembers. As it turns out, she can still set one of my personal favorite traps—the one that closes on your prey's leg and drags them into the air.

I find myself not examining her handiwork, but rather focusing on her eyes. That's okay though; she seems to be making few mistakes.

I like her presence here. Not just because I hate how my station is always neglected. Part of me would go on like this forever, showing her an example and observing her concentrated features as she practices. I wish she were talking more. I'm forbidden from forging any personal ties with a tribute, but if only she would initiate conversation… just to hear her voice…

Suddenly, someone is behind her and wrapping his arms around her. The boy finishes the knot she was working on for her. I now recognize him as Finnick, the popular victor from District 4. He won 10 years ago. As is characteristic of people from his district, he is quite good at knot-tying.

But I don't want him here. He's already broken everything that was going on, the calm balance that I was so enjoying.

I watch somewhat pensively as Katniss walks away to another station. Finnick is left in her wake. When I turn, I notice that he had been looking at me. He raises his eyebrows curiously. I try not to show any emotion, any reaction at all. I don't know how that worked out.

But he strides off to another station, leaving me alone.

Once again, I turn my attention to the girl on fire, who's now speaking to the trainer at the fire-building station.

That was the last time I'd ever see her. Up close, at least. I'll see her at home when I watch the Games, for certain.

I just wish I could have said something. I wish I could have told her what she means to me.

I wish I could have told her, "I love you."


	6. 17 Animal

**17 – Animal**

**A/N:** I wanted to write something tonight, but I didn't have any prose ideas. So I wrote a poem. It doesn't literally reference anything in THG or CF, but the connection is probably relatively clear. I always have a weird feeling about my poems… as in I never really like them… so let me know what you think.

Feral, bestial, degraded  
Hunger never satiated  
Blood on my claws, my jaws  
But I am no closer to life

And now everyone has their eyes on me  
On this creature, this animal  
One can only wonder what they see

I return to humanity  
But now lacking in sanity  
Physically freed, indeed  
But I am no closer to life

And now everyone has their eyes on me  
On this creature, this animal  
This isn't what I meant to be


	7. 15 Blood

**A/N:** I wasn't planning on writing this until I had a copy of THG to reference, but now I need to write something to "warm up," (no pun intended… seriously) and that's what I'm doing now…

_Is the music of grove skin rock__  
Soaked in the diesel of war-boy's war?  
Blood, black gold and the face of a judge  
Is the music calling for a river of blood?_

_The Clash_, "Corner Soul"

**15 – Blood**

My eyes remained fixated on the orange and golden flame as I tried to capture its warmth. I'd built the fire copiously, using a overly large pile of dry wood to create a massive flame. Nevertheless, the heat was insufficient. Whichever side of my body was away from the fire suffered from the harshly cold temperature of the night. I scooted closer, until the heat was intense enough that it stung.

I tried to slowly rotate my body like one would rotate a spit when cooking. The leaves beneath my feet rustled, but nothing could be done about that. Anyone who could hear it would be able to see the fire too, anyway.

The cold was still eating at me, sending sporadic shivers through my body. It was going to be a rough night. As much as I needed sleep, I didn't think it was possible. I'd never be able to lay down without freezing. And it wasn't safe to sleep when I was so exposed. I brought my arms into my shirt to try to conserve warmth, tucking my hands under my triceps.

It was uncomfortable, but I could manage in this position for a while, I though.

All of a sudden, I heard footsteps. I turned my head in that direction, fear coursing through my veins. They were approaching, quickly.

I silently hoped that it was just another tribute. Someone who didn't want to cause any trouble. But the footsteps were picking up speed now, and the intent was clear.

I was the target.

A light, but icy, wind brushed through the trees, causing the leaves to rustle overhead. I considered my options. After I few seconds of thought, I settled on my instinct: to run.

I pulled my hands free of my shirt and pushed myself up.

Muttering curses, I stumbled to my feet, but someone was already crashing through the trees. One of the Careers, I noticed. He brandished a vicious sword. The firelight made the whole scene more terrifying.

I was frozen. I was like a small animal, paralyzed with fear. The boy was already on top of me. I began feebly backing up, but he didn't hesitate. The sword sliced across my stomach as I weakly called out—as if someone would come to help me.

I fell backwards, my head landing painfully on the roots of a large tree. There was a good deal of laughter from the group, but it was all blurred. My senses were fading rapidly now as my mind tried to cope with the pain.

They seemed to realize that I had nothing of value—nothing at all—so after a little more discussion, they began to walk off.

The cold was no longer the main object of my attention; the sharp pain across my stomach, however, was. I applied pressure to the wound, extending my life as long as I could, but in vain, for I knew that there was no chance of survival. A groan escaped my lips.

I could feel the heat of the fire through my boots. However, the upper part of my body was freezing. Particularly my ears, the tip of my nose. My left hand was covered in sticky blood, which lost all of its heat shortly after gushing from the wound.

The blood was now gushing from my stomach, soaking my shirt. I just wanted it to end.

Once again, I detected the sound of footsteps. This time, though, they sounded like they were of another world. Maybe I was already dead—no, there was too much pain for that to be true.

Through my tears I could see a figure standing above me. I couldn't make out his features in the dim firelight.

"Please," I croaked.

Vocal action brought pain to my chest, and was followed by a volley of coughing. I thought I tasted blood, but I couldn't be sure. My blood was everywhere already.

"Sorry," the piteous response came. Briefly I felt a sense of extreme pressure in my chest as he thrust something down at me.

The moment of discomfort was immaterial, though, because it was followed by the bliss of nothingness as everything faded to black.


End file.
